Two Souls
by NZgirlie
Summary: Deathly Hallows spoilers! Fred and George were always one unit, one soul, larger than life. How will George cope now he has lost half of himself? A story of love, life, loss, and above all, family.
1. Alone

'Pour me another double, Tom.'

The ancient landlord of The Leaky Cauldron averted his eyes and complied, sliding the glass down to the semi-lucid man alone at a little table down the end of the bar. He knew he was supposed to tell his customers when to stop, but then again, here was a man who really needed a drink. Had needed a drink each night, every night, for quite some time now, actually. Tom was uncomfortable, maybe he would say something soon, but he was never too good at giving advice or listening to his customers pouring their hearts out, despite having been a barman for 62 years. He was a simple man.

George Weasley was drunk. Very drunk. But not drunk enough. He threw the firewhiskey down his throat and slammed the shot glass down on the little rickety table; he had learned to ignore the burning sensation. He checked his watch: one a.m. Not late enough to sleep, really sleep, without waking in the night.

He had moved out of The Burrow and back into the little flat they had shared above their shop. He was tired of the looks he got whenever he walked into a room at the Burrow, the sudden hush of voices that showed that they had just ceased talking about him, the fact that his mother only seemed to cook meals she knew were his favourites, forgetting that that was unlikely to cheer him up as they were Fred's favourites too. They owled him a lot, they were worried, especially his mother, but they understood he wanted to be alone.

George's head was resting sideways on the table, resting on his arms. He could see the bottles lined up ever so neatly at the bar, their shelves buffed to a shine, polished: Tom took good care of his bar. He surveyed the bottles, wondering which one would bring him blissful oblivion. Lotka's Vodka? Maybe mixed with a little sinful gin. Or Rasta's Finest Carribbean Rum… His eyes slid in and out of focus. He scanned the shelves full of hard liquor, and then one bottle caught his eye. His stomach contracted painfully. As far as bottles of spirits go, it was nondescript, glass with a brown and black label. Travers' Tequila. A memory gripped him, he closed his eyes to make it go away, but it only made it all the more clear.

_It was a Friday night in the Gryffindor Common Room, and George, for once in his pre-war life, was alone. Everyone had gone to bed, and he was waiting for Fred; he had been told that he should wait, he would have a surprise, and that they would be celebrating their birthday in style. April the first, no-one ever missed the joke of their birthday. April 1st, 1979, when two April Fools were born, 6 minutes apart, George the younger, Fred the older– and the age difference was never forgotten by either, as twins never do forget that sort of thing. In 1994, 15 years later, well, nearly anyway, it was 10 minutes to midnight. George felt anxious about this– he had never turned a year older without his brother by his side._

_When they were little, they used to stay up until midnight and count down the seconds, then they would give each other their gifts, always homemade, always joke-presents, that way, they would always be the first gift-giver of the day to each other. Once, when they turned 8, Fred gave him a jack-in-the-box that exploded and then reformed into its perfect, pristine prior state– but unfortunately George liked this so much that he did it 3 more times until his mother smashed down their bedroom door in her nightie and walloped him around the ears with it for waking her up- along with the rest of the household._

_The portrait hole opened and in walked Fred, with his characteristic mischievous grin that George knew so well, that he wore himself more often than not. He wore a travelling cloak over his robes, and the bottom of it was cloaked with dust and dirt. George has suspected that he might have gone to Hogsmeade, and here was his suspicions confirmed- the dirt from the secret passageway gave the game away. Fred threw himself onto the couch, he winked at George and revealed from behind his cloak a bottle, glass, with a brown and black label, full of sloshing, light amber coloured liquid. George's eyes widened and he mirrored his brother's smile. George took it from him and read:_

'_Travers' Tequila? Where did you get this? Surely Rosmerta didn't let you have this?'_

'_No no, my simple twin, this was a more direct acquisition- sweets aren't the only thing the Honeydukes keep in that cellar,' He grinned. 'The old bloke must keep his secret stash there too, away from his wife, but not away from us… I left money, but all the same, quite kind of him, we must write a thank-you note, a Christmas card, perhaps. We're men now George, and men drink tequila.'_

_He withdrew two small glasses from his cloak, set them on the low table in front, and filled them to the brim. He handed one to George, and simultaneously they checked their watches. One minute to midnight._

'_Well, Fred, should we do a sum-up of the year in thirty seconds or something of the like?'_

'_I was thinking the same George- but maybe we should do instead a sum-up of the year to come.'_

_There was no need for second-guessing or explanations; they always understood each other perfectly._

'_Well,' said George. 'I plan to keep a tidy trunk, get my homework done on time, become a prefect and write essays on the importance of law and order in our society to be published in the Wizard's Law Review. Co-authoring with Percy, of course.'_

_Fred nodded solemnly. 'A fine course of life for a fine young man. I however, plan to set off a dungbomb in McGonagall's office, kidnap Mrs Norris, and snog at least 10 girls.'_

'_You could never snog 10, ugly.'_

'_Wanna bet, ginger git?'_

'_Most girls in a year, winner is the other's slave for a week?'_

'_You're on.'_

'_This year is already shaping up nicely.'_

_They checked their watch- 5 seconds to go._

'_Here's to becoming men,' said Fred._

'_Men,' agreed George._

_And on the stroke of midnight, they downed their first ever taste of hard liquor. The tequila licked like flames at their throats, and they gasped, their eyes watering, and they grinned at each other._

'_It tastes like the essence of Uncle Bilius,' coughed George_

'_Bless his soul,' said Fred. 'Only one thing to wash it down with.'_

_And he poured two more. They threw them back… And George remembered his present. He extracted it, wrapped in exuberant orange wrapping paper, from beneath the couch and passed it to Fred._

'_Many happy returns, ya bugger.'_

_Fred beamed and passed George his own, wrapped in the same paper._

_George ripped open his… inside was a small, white box. He removed the lid carefully, wary of any explosive materials; inside was a small, single, sweet. He began to laugh, and looked at Fred._

'_You didn't.'_

'_I did. The first ever finished Ton-Tongue Toffee. It'll take a long time to develop more though, but now at least we have a prototype. Basic ingredients all your idea of course, but I've found the missing ingredient,' said Fred._

'_What was it?'_

'_That's for me to know, and you to find out.'_

_Fred turned to his own, rather larger, present. It was long and rectangular, and he ripped it open with the same vigour as George. Once unwrapped, he gazed at it for a few seconds, and turned to George with an ear-splitting grin._

'_You didn't.'_

'_I did.'_

_It was a large sign, of the sort of size that you would always find hanging over the door of a shop. It was gleaming, brand new, a bright purple with wonderfully clashing bright orange letters: 'Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.'_

'_It's the beginning you know,' said George knowledgeably. 'We have our products'-he indicated the toffee-'and we have our marketing.' He indicated the sign._

'_It's all falling into place,' Fred sighed dramatically, leaning forward and pouring a third measure into the glasses. George could already feel a pleasant fuzziness of the brain, borne no doubt of the previous servings._

'_Now all we need is somewhere to put this sign, and… and money to invent more,' George said. Fred glanced at his brother; it was his fear also that they would not be able to fulfil their dream for lack of money._

'_Don't worry about that now,' Fred said quietly. 'It's our birthday, we're fifteen, lets celebrate properly!' He passed the shot to George._

'_Cheers.'_

'_Chin-chin.'_

_They downed their third, and their fourth, and their fifth, and soon they lost track of how much they had had, not least because they were now drinking straight from the bottle. They both knew one thing though:_

'_I've had more than yoooou.'_

'_No, I've defffinitelee had mor,' George articulated his certainty by slapping his hand on the table in front of him, but he overbalanced and fell off the couch._

'_You look like an idiot,' Fred chortled, wearing a hat fashioned from his potions essay on his head._

_He reached for the nearly empty bottle and overbalanced as well, pitching forwards and then slumping over, his head on the table. George felt like doing the same. He slumped his head down on the table too, but did it a little harder than he had intended, and wound up with a very sore head. Fred laughed. 'Careful now, or you'll get unconscious or die or something.'_

'_I won' die. I can't die.'_

'_Why is that, stupid?'_

'_Coz you… gots to have to die… same time with me.'_

_It was a clear thought in his head at least._

'_You don't make sense, stupid.'_

'_Its simple,' said George, slapping his hand on the table again. 'We'll die same time, same place. I know it.'_

'_Howdja know?' Fred mumbled, eyelids drooping._

'_Just coz. We're born same time, same place, weren't we? 15 years ago today!' They clinked their empty glasses together. 'So, we'll die same time, same place. I'll go a couple minutes after you though, coz I'm younger.'_

_Fred seemed to be asleep._

'_Fred?' said George._

_Fred grunted. He opened his eyes. "I like the sound of that." He burped. "That way we don't have to ever be apart."_

_The corner of George's mouth twitched up into a sombre smile._

'_Never.'_

'_What a girl.'_

''_S true though. You'll see. Never apart.'_

_Fred smiled, his eyes closed again. George closed his eyes too._

'_Never,' Fred whispered. And like that, side by side, they fell asleep, just like when they were very young, and slept in the same bed, on the same pillow. Never apart._

Until now. Tears leaked down George's face as he sat alone, his head on the table, just like it was back then, only there was no mirror image of his face resting next to his. He couldn't bear sitting still, now that he had thought of Fred against his will, whenever he did, it was like a dam burst inside him that even 20 more shots couldn't stop. He slammed a galleon down onto the bar and staggered out back.

It was pouring, but the only water George could feel running down his face was his own tears. He fumbled for his wand and tapped the brick, then sloshed his way down Diagon Alley, not troubling to avoid puddles; his shoes were soon filled with water. He reached the shop. There was a much bigger sign above the shop window, the main sign, you might say, bright and flashing, but to Fred and George the main sign was always the first one. He looked up at it hanging above the door, purple and orange, and stood there in the rain for a long time, his body racked with sobs. He eventually went up, to the second storey, to their small bedroom that they had shared, and curled up on his bed in his wet clothes and cried.

A/N: To be continued, it gets happier, I promise! Please review! Any mistakes feel free to point 'em out and they will be resolved.


	2. Let It Out

Chapter 2: Let It Out

George woke in the night with a brilliant idea for a new joke product and turned on the light intending to tell Fred right away. That was how it had always been; ideas would strike them at all hours of the day and night and they would scramble for a quill and parchment, bouncing the possibilities off each other without a second thought for lost sleep.

Instead, when he turned the light on, halfway through a sleepy "Hey, Fre-" all he saw was an empty bed next to him. It hit him the same way it always did- like a ton of bricks- and for a moment he almost marvelled at the fact that realising his twin brother was dead was still as painful as the first time.

He had been staying at the Burrow until about a week ago, and his mother had moved Fred's bed out of the room, thinking it was too painful for George to see. But for George- empty bed, empty space... it made no difference. He knew they were trying to help him but they seemed to think that the way to do it was to never let him be alone. George supposed he couldn't blame them- he hadn't truly been alone in his life. He didn't know how to be one single person in the same way that everyone else took for granted. But nonetheless, the constant chaperoning drove him to the point where he chucked a chair at his father during an argument over who would go with him to the local shop and announced he was moving back to the flat. His father said nothing, only looked at him, but his mother burst into tears. George hated hurting his parents but really... if he was going to be alone for the rest of his life, he needed to start learning how.

He was, by all accounts, failing miserably so far.

He turned the light off and lay alone in the darkness, with the memory of the joke product obliterated by his memories of Fred. He had reached a point beyond despair, where it simply seemed unfathomable to him that anyone could keep living and breathing like this. He stared at a spot of mould on his ceiling for hours until he drifted into a fitful, lucid kind of waking dream of a Hogwarts corridor that he and Fred had found once during their second year. It appeared at the entrance and exit to be one corridor, but it was actually two, separated by an invisible barrier. He could see Fred, and Fred could see him, but they couldn't hear each other at all. At Hogwarts it had been an amusing way to pass thirty seconds on the route to Charms, but in the dream, it was torture. George threw himself at the barrier over and over again but couldn't get through, and Fred was saying something to him, and George knew it must be important, but he couldn't make it out, and Fred was smiling but George wanted nothing more than to die...

George woke from a disturbed sleep around noon, with a horrible hangover and a blinding headache. After a shower and a shave, he felt marginally human again, but his shave had still resulted in multiple cuts to his face. He didn't like using a mirror, seeing his face, his stupid face, his dead brother's. He avoided shiny shop windows and, when possible, angled his head towards them so that his missing ear was prominent. Fred never lost an ear.

Catching his reflection in the windows of his shop was no longer an issue though; they were so dusty. Lee Jordan had already offered to come by and help him set up the place again, form a partnership, but George couldn't bear the thought of replacing Fred so soon. Deep down, George knew that Fred would be disappointed in him. Somehow though, that only made things worse. He dined on a lunch of chips and grease, which helped a little with the hangover but did little to improve his mood. The weather in Diagon Alley was sunny and people were beginning to return to it with smiles on their faces, carrying packages and holding the hands of young children- a sight long missing from the place.

George hated them. He trudged back to his flat and collapsed in a heap on the bed, only getting up hours later for a supper of stale cornflakes without milk. He had completely lost any interest in helping himself. Is this what his life was going to be? Sleeping, drinking, sleeping, drinking, until he found his way into an early grave?

_At least I'll be dead then,_ George thought dully. He watched as the night grew darker outside, until his room became pitch black. He never moved.

* * *

Molly was worried. It was good for her actually; spending her time focusing on one of her sons took her mind off her grief for the other. But in a way, losing Fred felt like losing George as well, because they'd never be the two of them again, and George could never be the same.

"Arthur, we have to do something about George."

Arthur looked up from his book and sighed. He had never looked so old or so sad. In many ways Arthur had always known that it would have been a miracle if his whole family made it through the war alive, yet somehow it had simply never occurred to him that either of his twin boys could die. After all, Fred and George had always been so much larger than life, so it simply seemed ...wrong... that either of them could succumb to death.

"I agree, but George has made it perfectly clear that he wants to be alone," He said softly, lifting his glasses and rubbing his temples.

"He doesn't know what he wants."

"Molly, he wants Fred, but Fred is...gone," said Arthur sadly.

Molly's lip trembled. "I know that. But instead of Fred he's gone for the opposite? Total isolation? No. He needs his family, his brothers. He needs to come back here. You remember Peter Fawkish?"

"Who?"

"Fawkish! You know, glasses, friend of Perkins, came to our wedding!"

'Oh yes," lied Arthur.

"Well he says he saw George drinking himself into a stupor at the Leaky Cauldron a few nights ago. Even he's worried about our son, we can't let this keep going!"

Arthur nodded. "Shall I talk to him tomorrow?"

Molly bowed her head. "No, Arthur. He doesn't need a parent to talk to, he needs a brother...Ron or Charlie or Percy. They lost a brother too, not a son like us." Her last sentence was a whisper, and a tear rolled down her cheek.

Arthur pulled his wife down to his armchair and held her for a while. "I'll talk to the boys."

* * *

And so it was that the next day, Ron stood apprehensively looking up at the tarnished signs of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, wondering what on earth he was going to do. All of his brothers had of course volunteered, but it was agreed that more than one would feel like an ambush, so somehow the task had fallen to him.

He was regretting it already. Maybe it would have been best if one of his older brothers did the job. Though he'd never admit it, he looked up to the twins immensely, and Fred's death had hit him hard. Picking up the pieces of George would be even harder, because the image of his older brothers' invincibility was so totally shattered. One was dead, one was dead inside. Not the best place for the person with 'the emotional range of a teaspoon' to start.

Ron let himself in, surprised that the door was not even locked. He hauled himself up the stairs, and noticed that clouds of dust erupted with every step- he knew that the twins had been holed up with Auntie Muriel for months before the battle, but he figured that George would have cleaned the flat a little when he got back to make it liveable again. Ron's vain hope that a week alone might have 'fixed' George evaporated.

Ron cleared his throat. "Hello?"

No answer.

"George? Its Ron... are you here?"

Ron wondered if he should try the pub. He plodded further into the room and stopped in confusion. It honestly looked like no human being had lived here for years. But there, on the floor, footprints that weren't his. Moving to the bedroom, he noted the closed curtains, the pile of old blankets on Fred's bed, and George's bed virtually untouched. And just as he had decided that George had somehow lied to them and had run off God knows where, the pile of old blankets moved.

Ron started. Narrowing his eyes in the dim light of the room, he could make out one bleary eye peeking up at him through the patchwork quilt.

"George?"

"Go away," he mumbled.

"Can't do that...I want to talk to you."

George's eye looked at him suspiciously. "Mum sent you, did she?"

'Yeah, she did actually," Ron said shortly. "So how about you...you get up off that bed and we go have a talk in the lounge, eh mate?" His words sounded feeble and awkward, and George rolled the one eye Ron could see.

"Bugger off."

Ron sighed. "Right George, you leave me no choice."

He raised his wand and thought with all his might: _Levicorpus! _With a loud bang, George was suddenly upside down in the air, with the blankets falling off him entangled.

George yelled in confusion and rage."What the- let me down you git!"

"No. Not until you promise to come and talk to me. Not sit there in a pile of crusty old blankets moping."

George sputtered. "If I want to take an afternoon nap that's none of your business. Go back to Mum."

"Maybe I will, at least she's not wallowing."

George abruptly stopped flailing and fixed him with a hate-filled glare. "Fuck you. You have no idea."

Ron bristled. "Oh REALLY? No, you're right, I have _no_ idea what it's like to lose a brother, none at all."

"He wasn't just my brother, he was my tw- FUCK YOU, LET ME DOWN!" George bellowed.

"Do you promise to come and talk to me?"

George sighed. "Fine," he said curtly.

Ron raised his wand and thought _Liberacorpus! _George collapsed in a heap on the bed and grumbled.

Ron took a step forward, not quite sure how to proceed. He sat gingerly on George's bed, facing him.

George eyed him with his arms folded. Ron shifted, uncomfortable about how he had just spoken to his brother. He sighed.

"You're right."

George frowned. "About what?"

Ron studied him carefully. "I don't have any idea. Fred was my brother, but he wasn't my twin. So I don't know what that's like. I s-still miss him though." He wiped his nose on his sleeve. George was resolutely looking at the corner.

"Yeah." He said heavily.

Ron took a deep breath. "Why don't you tell me?"

"Hmmm?" George seemed almost as if he wasn't paying attention anymore, he seemed so far away.

"Tell me what it was like. To lose him."

George's eyes snapped back to him. He was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice were steady, but so low and full of desolation that Ron would have actually preferred it if he was crying.

"It feels like I lost an entire half of myself. I never had to be a whole person, because I had Fred. Never even thought of myself as an "I", I was just part of a "we." Without him I'm not even...real. Even breathing and eating feels wrong without him by my side. I literally don't have any good memories that he wasn't a part of. So how can I keep going forth like life is worth living when... I don't even know what life is without him. I don't know what anything is without him. And he's dead. And I'll never- we'll never..." And George broke down, sobbing. Ron was quickly at his side but felt helpless to comfort his inconsolable older brother.

"George... It will get better..." Ron said, patting him on the shoulder.

"How do you know that?" George said angrily. "I don't want this. Nothing is worth this. We were meant to die together. _N-Never _apart_. _And he left me here and...I can't do it without him."

"Don't say that. Never say that. We're all so grateful you're still here. It wasn't your time mate... but I know it's cruel. You should have been together."

George hiccupped and looked at him.

"But only if you were old, and wrinkly, and ready to go. Not now, not this young... think of Mum."

George's eyes screwed up and he nodded, tears coursing down his cheeks.

Ron gathered his big brother up in his arms like a child and tried to think of what Hermione would say.

"Just cry," he said simply.

And he did. George cried with giant, heaving sobs racking his whole body. He howled like a wounded, dying animal, until he was exhausted and could not physically cry any more. Ron shed more than a few tears himself, but tried to stay strong and stoic for George, and for Fred.

* * *

A/N: Ok maybe that wasn't a happier chapter, but its getting there.


	3. Homeward Bound

Chapter Three: Homeward Bound

Ron stayed with George that night; they did not sleep. He bought cups of tea back from the all-night café and they sipped the hot brew as the first pale blue rays of the sunrise began to creep along the windowsill. They were mostly silent, but occasionally they talked, Ron of the latest news of The Burrow, George of the latest news of Diagon Alley, and once or twice, they talked of their favourite memories of Fred.

'D'you remember that one time?' Ron said, with a reminiscent gleam in his eye, 'When you and Fred climbed the tree in the back garden, you stayed up there all day- we must have been little, I wanted to get up there too and I was really angry because you stringed a sign up saying 'Identical People Only'- badly misspelled, of course…'

George gave a sad smile and nodded. 'I remember that. D'you know… I think that might have been the first time I remember that we talked about the shop.'

'The joke shop?'

'_No,_our _book_ shop, you idiot. Of course the joke shop. It was just always what we wanted to do… we never even considered anything else. We just felt like we were meant to do it.'

'You were.'

'We were in that tree all day, I think we were playing pirates and playing with things we'd got for our birthday from Zonkos, I can't even remember what they were… but something broke and I got really mad. Fred tried to cheer me up but I was just so annoyed my birthday present was broken- so he said that he would make a joke shop of his own where nothing ever broke. I said I wanted to help him- Fred said he'd let me but I would be his servant and he would do all the inventing- I tried to punch him in the arm and I nearly fell out,' George laughed. A shadow passed over his eyes. 'I keep expecting him to walk in the door and smack me round the back of the head for not cleaning the windows. I know just what he would say to me, what he would think… he'd be annoyed.'

'Yeah, he would,' agreed Ron.

George scowled. 'Great comfort you are, you knob.'

'He would though! But if I may say so, I think he'd also be a bit flattered.'

'Flattered?'

'That you miss him so much. He'd be sad too, but he'd find it morbidly amusing… he'd say something insensitive like: 'I know I'm impossible to get over, but get up off your fat arse.'

George snorted. He nodded. 'That sounds like Fred.'

'Sounds like you, too.'

'I know,' he sighed. 'We were always the same.'

Ron sensed that he was going down the road of melancholy again, and tried quickly to change tack.

'Well,' he said, slapping his hands on his knees in a 'get down to business' manner. 'I say we should go out and have some breakfast. My treat. I'm hungry, and Fred doesn't want you eating tinned asparagus and baking soda.'

George looked annoyed. 'Poking your sticky beak into my pantry? That's my business.'

'It's my business if that's all you've got for me to poke my sticky beak into. That's pathetic, mate.'

George glared. 'I'll shop today,' he mumbled.

Ron clapped a hand on his back. 'That's more like it,' he said ardently. He jumped up and grabbed George's arm, jerking him upright despite his protests. He marched him out of the flat and out into the bright sunshine. They stood for a moment, blinking and adjusting to the rapid change of light as Ron looked around for his favourite café, Ronaldson's.

'You're not thinking about going to Ronaldson's, are you?' said George suspiciously.

'So what if I am?' said Ron defensively.

'You only like that place because it's called Ronaldson's.'

'It has nice pancakes.'

'I could wipe my bottom with their pancakes,' George grumbled.

'French toast, then.'

'Even better, they're square. Makes for easier scrunching.'

Ron sputtered. 'Fine. Let's go to another place then, your highness.'

'I should think so, Jeeves.'

Ron pretended to keep an annoyed expression on his face, but really, he was smirking inside. _He's joking again,_ he thought. _I am a feelings god._

George did feel marginally more cheerful as he strolled down the cobbled street with Ron. He pushed his guilt for feeling happier down deep. _Don't be stupid,_ he thought. _Fred wouldn't want you to feel bad just because you're going to eat some pancakes that don't taste like vomit. Be strong for him._

They rounded a winding corner into the busiest part of Diagon Alley. Though still relatively early, there were still many witches, wizards and young children around, dining in cafés for a Sunday brunch, browsing through the magical magazines in Flourish and Blott's, sifting through barrels of eyes, claws and organs at the Apothecary, dragging their children away from Quality Quidditch Supplies. Ron and George stood for a moment, then turned to each other.

'The Cobble Café? That place looks nice.'

'Yeah,' agreed George.

They sat down on the comfy wicker chairs outside under a large outdoor umbrella and looked around them.

_Couldn't have asked for a better place to keep his mind off Fred_, thought Ron proudly. It was indeed a busy, interesting place in which to watch the magical world go by.

The waitress approached them shyly, eyes averted.

'Here are your menus,' she said softly, not looking at either of them.

'Thank-you,' said George, eyeing her.

'Cheers,' murmured Ron, taking the menus from her and passing one to George.

Ron raised his eyebrows at him, grinning. 'Pretty girl, eh?'

George shot him a look. He supposed Ron thought that him checking a girl out was a good sign. George found it hard not to agree.

George nodded and opened his menu. 'Pancakes for you, I'm guessing?'

'Of course,' Ron replied. 'Think I'll order a large side of tomatoes and bacon as well.'

George had decided on the Full English Breakfast. He suddenly felt very hungry all of a sudden- starving in fact. He remembered with a jolt that the last time he had eaten had been just the bowl of cornflakes the day before… Before then, he couldn't even remember, a breakfast of vodka, most likely. He suddenly felt ashamed. _No more of this,_ he thought sternly to himself._Fred would want you to take care of yourself._ He pushed his pang of sorrow away, the one he always got when he thought of Fred, and missed him. _Just focus on breakfast for now._

Ron was watching him apprehensively.

'Spit it out, then,' George said.

'Mate… just- give it some thought, I understand if you don't want to, but just… don't you think you should come back to the Burrow for a while? You've got to come back there on Thursday, anyway.'

'Thursday? Why?'

Ron looked at him, a frown between his eyes. 'The-the funeral, mate.'

George's heart dropped back down to his stomach like a stone. The funeral. God, he didn't want to go… but how could he miss his own twin's funeral? Fred would never forgive him. It was too soon for him, even though by funeral standards, it was very late, as those of unexpected deaths of the young generally are.

'Mmm,' George murmured noncommittally, pondering it over. Part of him wanted to stay and maybe start doing normal things like food shopping or washing his clothes again, the other part registered that his Mum could do that for him. Then there was the pride issue, crawling back to the Burrow after a week by himself because he couldn't handle it anymore- he knew that his family wouldn't see it that way, but he did. What could staying alone by himself achieve? Maybe he could continue on with trying to accept his grief- but he only really started that because Ron came round. Did he want to be alone any more? _No_, he thought, with conviction._I'll just go back- for a few days, keep myself busy, maybe that would help._He refused to anticipate the funeral just yet.

Ron had been watching him anxiously for the past few minutes while George stared at the table, clearly thinking hard, either that or being stubborn. He blurted impatiently : 'C'mon George, please?'

George let out a long breath, looked at the sky and nodded. 'Just for a few days.'

Ron nodded earnestly. 'Whatever you need. Mum'll be right pleased, she's been that worried about you- Percy too.'

George's insides squirmed uncomfortably. 'Percy?'

Ron looked troubled. 'Oh you know…' he said hesitantly. 'He sort of… blames himself. Thinks it should have been him, because he was the prat who deserted us and everything…'

George sighed. He needed to go home. Their meals were delivered and they ate in silence, absorbed in their own thoughts. Afterwards, George quickly grabbed his bag, and locked up the flat. He left Diagon Alley, feeling his way into nothingness with Ron at his side, thinking with all his might of his beloved Burrow.

* * *

A/N: I have edited this chapter from its original form so that I could finally let this story rest. This chapter was originally meant to sow the seeds of a romance for George, but after the next two chapters I found it so damn hard to change the story into that. So after 3 years (!) of ignoring it I just decided to alter it and leave it as just a story about George in the aftermath of Fred's death, I think its better this way. More simple.


	4. Absolution

Chapter Four: Absolution

George and Ron appeared out of thin air on a patch of grass outside a rickety, rusty-hinged wooden gate. The air was clear and silent but for the soft clucking of chickens.

Without a word, Ron lifted the latch and gestured George through. George paused for just a moment, taking in his childhood home, _their_childhood home, with the crooked storeys and chimney, the random chaos of its construction, and he permitted himself a small smile. Home- for now.

They ambled up the garden path together silently; all there was to say had been said. George kicked a pebble along, eyes on his feet, and wondered dimly what would come next. _God, I hope they don't make a huge deal out of it_, he thought. They reached their battered, homely front door, exchanged the briefest of looks, and George turned the handle.

No sooner had he done so was he bowled over by his mother, who hurtled out of the door and flung her arms around his neck and shrieked: 'Georgie!'

'Mum… geroff… I'm fine…'

'You're home, you're home!'

'Mum, you're hurting my neck.'

_So much for no big deal._

His mother eventually loosened her vice-grip on his neck ad pulled away, wiping her eyes on her frilly apron in her trademark way. She looked up tremulously and gave a watery smile. George noticed with a jolt how much weight she had lost. She beckoned them in, waving her hands and giving Ron a quick hug.

'Thank-you,' George heard her whisper.

George deposited his duffel bag and looked around the empty kitchen. He supposed everyone else would be at work. He searched for the magical clock: sure enough, the hands of his father and of Bill, Charlie and Percy all pointed to 'work.' With a sickening clench of his stomach, George noticed that Fred's hand had disappeared. Ginny's pointed to 'home.' Some confusion registered in his brain. He turned to his flustered mother, who was releasing Ron.

'Has Charlie gone back to Romania?'

'Hmmm?'

'His clock hand says work,' he said, pointing.

'Oh-oh no, dear, he's just helping out at the Ministry at the moment, there's just so much to do, to repair; they need all the help they can get and he volunteered.'

George nodded vaguely and looked away. He would have killed Charlie if he'd gone back before Fred's funeral.

'And Ginny?' He asked, silently willing his mother to act as though all was normal and not to fuss over him.

Ron spoke. 'She's here, Harry is too. They're probably out in the garden together or something.' He scowled.

George frowned. 'Hermione?'

'Still in Australia, she'll be bringing her parents home soon. She'll definitely be back before the fu- before Thursday though.' He swallowed, and looked around as if hoping to see her apparating that very second. George nodded again, eyes on the ground, swinging his arms awkwardly, avoiding the anxious gaze of his mother.

'Well, he said, clearing his throat. 'I think I'll go upstairs and unpack.'

Ron and Mrs Weasley exchanged an alarmed look.

'Georgie,' said Mrs Weasley timidly, 'I think you should sleep in Percy's room. He's staying here for a while, too.'

George narrowed his eyes. 'Shouldn't I sleep in mine? ' He said, purposely keeping his tone mild.

His mother looked embarrassed. 'I- I just don't think that's a good idea, sweetheart. You could sleep in Ron's room as well, or Charlie's, as he's home just not-not-'

'Our room.'

She bit her lip. George sighed and rolled his eyes upward.

'Fine,' he mumbled, teeth gritted, grabbing his bag and walking out of the room. He knew exactly why his mother wanted him in Percy's room, there was no point arguing. He walked up to the second floor and turned on the landing to Percy's room, empty and small but immaculate. He had a beautiful view of the back garden. His mother, queen of subtlety, had already put a mattress next to Percy's bed. George sighed. Living with Percy was bad enough, living with Percy and his survivor's guilt was going to be a nightmare. George suddenly realised how tired he was, he had not slept the whole of the previous night, or the last. Kicking off his shoes, he slumped onto the mattress and fell asleep.

* * *

When he woke, it was dark. George blinked sleepily and turned his head to Percy's bedside clock. It was nine p.m. Insides rumbling with hunger, he sat up. Surely his brothers and father would be home? Steeling himself, he reluctantly swung his legs off the mattress and stood up. He made his way downstairs, padding silently in his socks, and stopped a little way from the sitting room, from which issued soft, low voices.

'-Think he'll definitely stay until Thursday… but after that I don't know.'

'I think he'll stay longer,' said Ron. 'I think he realised he needed help.

George seethed quietly outside the door. The only reason they were fussing and talking about him so much was because it helped them cope with their own grief. He didn't want to be the 'one who needed help.' Maybe he should leave straight after the funeral, just to show them.

_What would Fred want?_

The little voice inside his head who always answered those questions was silent. Maybe George would just have to figure this all out on his own.

He backed up several steps to the stairs, and then made his way down noisily, giving his family warning and time to pretend to be talking about something else. As he pushed open the door, he heard Ron saying: 'Apart from those losses, the Cannons could still have a good season.'

_Git._

His family all looked towards the door. There was George, stony-faced in the doorway, and within, there was his mother and father, Bill and Fleur, Charlie, a grey and drawn Percy, Ron, Harry and Ginny.

George scratched his head absently and looked at the floor. He made his way to the only available space left on the one of the squashy settees and sat. The air was thick with tension and he could sense every pair of eyes in the room on him.

'Welcome back, George,' said Harry quietly.

Ron and Charlie nodded fervently, Ginny got up and gave her brother a hug and smiled that reassuring smile she always did so well.

'Hi, big bro,' she whispered, eyes overbright.

George tried for a smile; couldn't manage it. He bit his lip and tried not to lose control. He took a deep breath and asked: 'What's for dinner?'

The awkward strain in the room seemed to evaporate with the question. He heard chuckling and at least four collective breaths being released. His mother stood up at once and dashed into the kitchen, bringing back a plate of sausage and mash that she was heating up with her wand. She wrapped her arms around him briefly with that motherly hug she was always so gifted with, kissing his forehead.

'I saved some for you,' she said, handing him the plate. He stared at it, then looked at her. She looked anxiously back, and he raised an eyebrow.

She slapped her forehead. 'Knife and fork!' She dashed back into the kitchen, followed by the amused gaze of everyone in the room. Returning red-faced with the cutlery, she gave it to George and he began to cut and chew, glad to do something with his mouth that didn't involve talking. Ginny seemed to take the hint, at least.

'So, Dad, what were you saying about Kingsley?'

'Oh, yes,' said Mr Weasley, taking his eyes off his son. 'What was I saying? Oh, of course… well, he's doing such a good job at the moment that I don't foresee anyone challenging him to become Minister, he's still under the 'temporary' title, of course, but then again…'

George tuned out and focused on his food. Maybe staying here wouldn't be so bad after all.

The rest of the evening passed quietly. George remained mostly noiseless, but at least his family seemed to assume that he would be that way, and they remained as normal as the Weasleys plus the Boy Who Lived in one room could be. He learned news of the Ministry that he had missed, of their rebuilding programme, the reversal of all laws implemented by Voldemort sympathisers, and of, he heard with a smile on his face, the capture of the hiding Umbridge and her sentencing to life imprisonment for crimes against Muggle-borns.

Eventually the yawns became more frequent, the stretching of cramped limbs and rubbing of eyes more noticeable, and one by one, they began to make their way to their beds. George was one of the last to go, after such a long nap he had a little more fuel in the engine, but after a while he, too, felt like going to bed.

The only person in the room that night that remained more silent than George was Percy. George knew exactly why, but he preferred to try to ignore it. Comforting Percy was not something he was up to when he still felt lost himself.

He lay upstairs on the slightly lumpy mattress, wondering when Percy would come up so that he could go to sleep. After an hour or so, he heard slow, heavy footsteps coming towards the door, heard it pushed open with a creak. The light from the landing flooded in and Percy started when he saw George awake.

'Sorry… didn't mean to wake you,' he mumbled.

'Already awake,' he mumbled back.

Percy stared for a moment, and George felt in one horrible moment that it wasn't George that Percy was seeing. George turned onto his side, both to escape his gaze and to throw his missing ear into prominence. After a few seconds, he heard Percy move to his bed, take off his shoes and socks, and change into his bedclothes. Not another word was spoken between them, though both lay awake for much longer.

* * *

The next morning, Percy was gone when George woke up. Sunlight was filtering through the curtains in strips, throwing the floating dust in the room into sharp relief. He blinked sleepily and adjusted to the light. He could hear clattering outside, an unnatural amount of clattering for so early on a Wednesday morning. He threw off his blankets and walked over to the window. His mother and some workmen were out in the garden, setting up white chairs in rows. His heart sank. That could only be for one thing. He hoped it was a nice day tomorrow.

Unable to bear watching them setting up chairs that everyone except Fred would sit in, he dressed and wandered down to the kitchen for breakfast. Harry, Ron and Ginny were there, eating cereal and talking quietly. They looked up as he entered, but he averted his eyes and busied himself with getting cornflakes.

'Morning,' he grunted.

'Morning,' they replied.

He sat and ate. He could feel them exchanging looks, but they continued with their conversation. After breakfast, he decided to go for a walk. He gritted his teeth as he went past the chairs, dreading the funeral, and went through the small leafy glade that led to the field where they used to play quidditch. The field was open and unkempt, with tall, high grass and flowers, lined around the outside with high, thick trees that obscured the muggles' view of their magical behaviour. George stood and breathed the air in, feeling relaxed. He picked his way through the overgrown field to the fallen tree trunk that served him as a seat whenever he wanted to be alone… now he was truly alone for the first time. He sat, and thought, and watched the tree branches sway in the light breeze.

After half an hour, or perhaps several hours, he became aware that he wasn't alone anymore. He turned his head to see Percy standing hesitantly 20 feet away, looking as though he was trying to take a step forward, but couldn't manage. George could tell why he had come, he would want to talk and be reassured; George wasn't sure whether he could be of any help.

George sighed. Now, or later, it had to come.

'D'you want to sit?' he asked.

Percy looked at his feet and nodded.

He made his way over and sat gingerly on the log. They sat in silence for a while, looking at the beautiful nature around them, and trying to think of how to start saying all the things they were thinking. George decided there was no point skirting around the issue at hand.

'I want you to know,' George said slowly, 'that Ron told me that you blame yourself. For what happened. I think that's bullshit.'

Percy said nothing.

'It was no-one's fault. Every single member of our family fought in the battle and it's a miracle that only one didn't make it…. So many people died. I wish it wasn't Fred. And I still wish I went with him, it would have been better for me in a lot of ways, but-'

'I should have gone instead,' whispered Percy. George had a sudden image of a dam bursting.

His voice was anguished. 'He didn't deserve to die. It should have been me the blast hit, I betrayed my family, I can't stand living in my own skin- its what I did! Its- its eating me from inside out! The blast was meant for me, I know it!'

'Shut-up Percy. D'you really think that the only people who died that night were people who had something to be sorry for? It didn't matter, it was all random and Fred just- just got the bad luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, that's all!'

George felt irrationally angry. Perhaps it was because, even though he was sitting here trying to tell his older brother that he didn't deserve to die, he knew that in his darkest moments he, too, had thought it unfair that it was Fred, and not Percy.

Percy's hands covered his face and George heard his tormented gasps, ripped from his body. George hesitated, but roughly gripped Percy's shoulder. Percy's hand moved up to cling to it. They stayed that way for a while.

Percy lowered his hand. His face was pale, blotchy and gaunt, he had dark shadows under his eyes; he looked as if he had aged ten years in two weeks.

'I can never forgive myself. I wish I could go back, and swap places with him…'

'You can't,' said George bluntly. 'It's in the past and you can't change it. And we forgive you, so that should be enough.'

George felt exhausted, even though it was only mid-morning.

'Just-just try to think of what he would want. That's what I do,' he said, looking Percy in the eye. Percy looked back, tear tracks on his pained face.

'What would he want?' said George.

Percy looked away. 'I don't know. '

'Yes you do,' said George.

Percy paused, and nodded. He did not say what he thought Fred would want, but George knew they were thinking the same thing. They sat in silence once again, until George expressed his desire for some lunch. As they walked back together, George felt simultaneously more heavy-hearted and light-hearted than before. It was a few more hours before he realised what the feeling was. It was acceptance.

* * *

The day of the funeral passed in a haze for George. He was surprised and gratified by how many people came: most of their school year (with the exception of the Slytherins); everyone who had been in Gryffindor with him; everyone who had played Quidditch with him; the whole of the DA and the Order; all the teachers of Hogwarts; their staff at Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes; many of the neighbouring storeowners in Diagon Alley; the whole Weasley clan,;and a flustered Hermione; who arrived from Australia with only hours to spare. It was well organised, well carried off… George's only input was a request for very good food at the wake, as he once remembered Fred saying to him: 'At our funerals, we should just give everyone a good feed-up.' It was the hardest thing he ever did, walking up to Fred's open casket to look down at his perfectly preserved face, exactly like his own face, pale and expressionless. It took all his strength not to scream, fall to his knees and fling himself over his body like he had seen his mother do when she had run into the Great Hall only to see her dead son.

He lost count of the pats on his back, the murmured condolences, the pitying looks. He sat silent and alone. Tears came to him only once, when Angelina Johnson stood and said her walked to the podium, visibly shaking and took her notes from her robes. With the merest half glance at Fred, feet away from her, she began.

"I remember the first time I met Fred as if it were yesterday. He was with George, of course, and I was on the Hogwarts Express for the first ever trip after having just turned eleven. They came into my compartment where I was sitting by myself, cracking jokes faster than I could believe. I'd never met a pair of identical twins before, I was fascinated by them, but I quickly learned to tell them apart. Because though in many ways they were the same, those who knew them knew the subtleties that made them individuals. The first thing Fred ever said to me was: "You look like a Gryffindor to me. Might even be my future wife, if you're good." Her lips trembled, and she faltered.

"T-Though I remember so many other things he said to me, it was his first and last words to me that stick out most in my memory. The last thing he said to me was something I will carry with me until my own dying day. It was during the battle... he had just run into the corridor where I and several others were battling death eaters… We fought them away, we were winning, when several more blasted their way through a secret passageway that Fred had been watching. He immediately ran towards them… I shouted at him to stop, that it was too dangerous, that he was being a fool… He stopped for just a second and smiled at me, and- and he said…" She began to cry. "He said, laughing: 'A fool until the end, Ange… Couldn't live with myself otherwise!'"

She looked at George, and smiled a sad smile.

"He hurtled forward to take them on... we ran to help but- but we got cut off by more of them who ran our way... He was joined by Percy and- and you will all know that that was the last battle he fought." She took a breath.

"I'll look back on my memories of Fred with huge fondness and sadness; I don't have one single memory of him that I won't think of with a smile, I know that's how he would have wanted it. He'll never be gone from me, or from any of you here today, he had so much spirit and I'll think of him always.

"To me, both his first and his last words to me show the kind of person he was: fiercely loyal, fiercely funny, he made everyone he knew enjoy life more, but, and here was the key: he knew what to take seriously, and what he did; he literally fought to his death for.

"I know he wouldn't be angry that he died, he would be proud that he fought for what he believed in, with more courage than I have ever seen, with acceptance that he might pay the ultimate price, because he knew it was worth it. He died for all of us, and he knew it, and he would not begrudge us the life we still enjoy, if a little less without him. To his family, especially George and Mr and Mrs Weasley, I ask that you that feel the immense pride that you should feel in your son and brother, for him_-_ for the immense part you had in creating the stunning person he was, shaping him, making Fred Fred- he really couldn't have been better. To his friends- I ask that you feel the immense pride you should feel for having had the _privilege_ to meet him, know him, and most definitely, laugh with him. That is a true honour. Honour that. I will- I'll miss him... every day, for as long as I live, but I'm so happy... and proud, that I could count him as my friend for every day that I did know him. Remember Fred, and thank-you.'

George knew she did not speak the last word to the audience, but to Fred. He looked around, most of the audience were in tears, all of his family certainly were. He watched as Ron put his arms around a sobbing Hermione, and as Harry stroked his sister's hair, her face buried in his shoulder, with tears coursing down his own cheeks. His mother was inconsolable, of course, but it was with surprise that he saw that Fleur was nearly as bad as her. Everyone around him was so full of love and sorrow for Fred. George smiled.

He _was_ proud.

* * *

A/N: Well, that was the hardest chapter EVER to write. Its been planned for so long, I had another big scene planned for this chapter, but I'll just make it a short one next time, this one's too long already! Well, I sobbed all the way through writing the funeral scene, was gonna make it George who spoke but I think it would have been far too hard for him. Anyway let me know what you think- nzgirlie.


	5. Two Souls

Chapter Five- Two Souls

George sat in the crowded sitting room after the funeral, not talking much, but eating with gusto. He knew Fred wanted everyone to eat like pigs. The wake spilled outside and into the kitchen. People moved slowly, circuiting, there were tears and laughs, memories and smiles.

George sat next to Ginny and Angelina on their squashy couch. They spoke of Fred, and George felt himself smiling and laughing again. He thanked Angelina for her speech… she had said it all. Well-wishers approached every few minutes to offer condolences. George had the strangest feeling as he sat in that noisy room, as if he had not said goodbye to his brother at all- because he could sense him there with him. He sighed. That was some small comfort then, whether or not it was real, or just the result of bad chicken salad.

He felt that he was being watched. He looked around, his eyes coming to a halt on Harry, who stared at him, a calculating look on his face. George raised an eyebrow.

Harry dropped his gaze and stood. George kept his gaze on him as he walked towards the door, and just before Harry reached it, the smallest jerk of the head beckoned George to follow him, before he disappeared behind a knot of Gryffindors. George remained still for a moment, confused, then rose to trail him.

As he made his way onto the landing, searching over people's heads for Harry, he caught a glimpse of him making his way up the stairs. He didn't turn to see if George was behind him. George pushed his way through the throng and hurried up to find him. Upstairs was devoid of people; it was private space. Harry stood waiting for him just before Fred and George's room. George caught up, slightly out of breath. 'Harry, What-?'

'Just come in here. I want to talk to you.' Harry gestured into Fred and George's room. George eyed him warily.

'Why in there?'

'Because.'

George rolled his eyes and trudged in behind him.

Harry strode over and perched awkwardly on George's bed, staring briefly at the patch of discoloured carpet that marked where Fred's bed had been.

George sat next to him, scowling with his hands in his pockets.

Harry watched him.

'Can I ask you something?' he said abruptly.

George frowned. 'I thought you were meant to be giving answers, not questions.'

Harry raised an eyebrow and waited. George sighed and gestured a 'go ahead.'

Harry began. 'Did-did you... Could you feel? I mean, did you know...'

He sighed and tried again. 'Did you know, when he died? Even though you weren't there?'

George stared, surprised. Harry watched him anxiously.

George spoke slowly. 'Yes, I did... I felt it. I was mid-battle and all of a sudden I just felt something... break, or, or tear, something that was just _Fred_... something that I never knew I had, that made me aware of Fred, it broke and I couldn't feel him anymore. I not sure I ever really did feel it there, but I knew when I didn't anymore. It was like suddenly going blind. I had to keep fighting and ignore it, but I knew deep down what had happened. When I walked into the Great Hall afterward, Mum and Dad were shielding him from me, but I knew.'

He sniffed and wiped his eyes, looking away, not noticing that Harry was doing the same.

Harry sighed. 'Your family have already had me tell the whole story to them. Everything. They convinced me it was time just after you had left, and I wanted to wait for you, but they needed to understand everything. And I realised that perhaps just telling you on your own would be better, because I've been meaning to tell you something ever since he died, something that I think might make it easier... but I never knew how to do it.'

George scrutinised him. He arranged himself into a more comfortable position on the bed, settling in for the long haul. He looked at Harry expectantly.

'Get on with it then.'

Harry smiled and inhaled deeply, pondering as how to begin.

'I suppose it all started long before I was born, with a young witch called Merope and a Muggle named Tom Riddle.'

Harry spoke for over an hour. He was patient with George, who was constantly interrupting him as he grappled with all the intertwining fates and histories, with new names and words. Horcrux. Ariana. Grindelwald. Aberforth. Godric's Hollow. Bathilda Bagshot. As he spoke George appreciated for the first time that what he was listening to may have been the greatest story ever told, one that he was a part of. It would need a long series of books to even do it justice.

Harry spoke of his Voldemort and his family, his life story. How he became what he became. He spoke of Dumbledore and his family, and what he had suffered and done as a young man. He spoke of his parents, of secret-keepers and betrayals, of rats and life-debts. Of those fateful nights in Godric's Hollow, first as an infant, and then as a man.

He talked of the Philosopher's Stone, of the Chamber of Secrets, of the Triwizard Tournament and the graveyard where Voldemort was born again with Harry's blood in his veins. He talked of Priori Incantatem. He talked of the night at the Ministry, of the prophecy and the room locked at all times.

He talked of Dumbledore's death, that night that had cost them so much to only gain a fake horcrux. He spoke of Dumbledore's blackened hand, and what it meant. He explained his realisation that he could never rest until all the horcruxes had been destroyed. He spoke of R.A.B, of Kreacher, and their infiltration of the ministry.

He talked of their miserable year away, of their fear and dwindling faith. He did not speak of Ron's desertion. That was one thing George did not need to know. He talked about the beautiful patronus and how it led them to the sword of Godric Gryffindor and the destruction of Slytherin's pendant.

He spoke of the few precious moments of hope they had had when they heard his voice on the radio in their tent, before being whisked away to the misery of Malfoy's dungeon, hearing Hermione's screams. He talked about Dobby, Ollivander, Bellatrix Lestrange, Griphook, and Shell Cottage. He described their break-in at Gringotts, and their legendary escape on a dragon.

Finally he got to the Battle of Hogwarts. Here all he needed to do was fill in the gaps for Fred. The lost diadem of Ravenclaw. Ron and Hermione destroying Hufflepuff's cup, the last desperate search for the Horcruxes. Snape's murder, and his dying deed. His memories, his love for Harry's mother, and what he had done for Harry, for everyone. Harry recounted every memory to George, as if seeing them before his eyes again.

Here Harry stopped, unsure of how to go on.

George stared at him, dumbfounded. 'Wait- wait a second. _You_ were a _Horcrux_?

Harry nodded.

'But I thought you said all of them had to be gone before he could...'

Harry nodded again. 'I had to die.'

George blanched. 'But you didn't. You are quite clearly alive, and Vold-Voldemort is quite clearly dead. He is_... isn't he?_**'**

Harry nodded once more, smiling. 'Don't worry, he's gone. And I did die, George. I'm alive now, but I did die. Maybe only for one second, but I did. And so did he.'

Harry sighed. 'I'm getting ahead of myself.'

Harry introduced George to the last new word he would learn in this story: Hallow.

He told him that the children's story was true, and described the hallows. He spoke of his long walk into the forest, and how he finally understood the words: 'I open at the close.'

'I had the stone George, the resurrection stone. And I finally understood what Dumbledore meant me to have it for. So I turned it three times in my hand, and there they were.'

George was desperate to know. 'Who? Who was there?' _He couldn't possibly mean_...?

Harry exhaled. 'My parents. Sirius, and- and Lupin. He must have only just crossed over.'

'You mean you brought them back to life?'

Harry smiled sadly. 'No George. Nothing can bring the dead back.'

George's heart fell.

'They were like echoes, more solid than ghost, real but not real- like Cedric was in the graveyard. They were young, and whole. They spoke to me. They helped me to go on when I thought I couldn't take another single step.' His voice quavered and broke.

'They guided me to the clearing where they waited for me. I put my wand away, I couldn't fight. I had to die.'

George appreciated that not only was this the greatest story ever told, but that it was being told to him by the bravest character of them all.

'So he killed me, but something went wrong. He died too. We went to... a place. Dumbledore was there waiting for me.'

'_Dumble_-'

Harry held up a hand. 'I don't know if it was real, or in my head. But Dumbledore said to me that there was no reason that it couldn't be both. He helped me understand the final details, what had to be done. Voldemort- he was there too, but he- he was a- a thing. Like a baby, but there was nothing pure about him. He was a helpless thing, in pain, but he wasn't something I wanted to help... he was being punished.

'We came back, both of us. He had tied us both to life when he took my blood. He destroyed a part of his own soul trying to kill me that second time. I played dead, otherwise he would have killed me again, for good. You know what happened next. Neville killed Nagini, there were no more horcruxes. And he was killed with his own curse. I've never used the killing curse, and I never intend to if I can help it.'

George was at a total loss for words. They sat for a little while, George trying to absorb the magnitude of everything he had just heard. After several minutes of silence, George shook his head and began to laugh. Harry frowned.

'What's so funny?'

George snorted. 'You, mate. Survived the killing curse for a second time, with not a scratch on you.'

Harry raised his eyebrows. 'That's not entirely true.'

George raised his own. 'Oh?'

Harry bit his lip. He unbuttoned his shirt, and George gasped. In the centre of his chest, there was a lightning shaped scar, larger but identical to the famous one on his forehead.

George stared. 'Don't show the Prophet that one.'

Harry grinned, buttoning up his shirt again. 'I won't. Already get enough staring from the first one. I don't need people staring at my forehead and then looking down to between my nipples just in case I'm wearing a see-through shirt that day.'

George burst out laughing.

Harry grinned and turned to George. 'I have a theory.'

George narrowed his eyes in suspicion, knowing that it was going to be about him.

'I had suspected that you would have felt it when he died. You're identical twins, you started as one cell that split in two. I think that maybe, when you just started off as one cell, you had one soul. When you became two people, it split in two as well.'

George opened his mouth angrily, but once again Harry held up a hand to silence him.

'Not in the horrible way like Voldemort. He chose that. It would have been in a beautiful way. You wouldn't have had half a soul; it would have been one soul growing into two. It's like when you love someone. If you love someone else as well, it doesn't mean the love in your heart for the other person is suddenly halved. Your heart just doubles in size. You would have had half of his in you, and half of yours in him. Every person is born with a whole soul. You both were. You were just more part of each other than anyone else is when they first start out.'

George wiped his eyes, lips trembling.

'Its only a theory,' said Harry feebly.

George shook his head. 'No it's not.'

He looked at Harry. 'So do you think that when he- when he died that he took...'

Harry shook his head smiling, knowing what George meant. 'No. You think that he took the part of his soul that was in you back with him? It was never really his to begin with. It was just a part of him that belonged to you, just like a part of you belongs to him. I think you felt it because there was a bond between the two that broke, not because you lost a part of your soul. You're still whole, George.'

George felt an unexpected sense of relief. He knew that Harry was just guessing, but everything he said felt true.

'That's why I wanted to talk to you, George. I wanted to tell you about seeing my parents, and Lupin and Sirius. They went somewhere. I once asked Nick about it, why he was still here when other people aren't. He said he was afraid of death... afraid to have 'gone on.' He couldn't answer me when I asked him what that meant, but I think I understand as much as we're meant to understand now. Death isn't the end. Fred isn't fully gone. You'll see him again one day.'

George covered his eyes and sobbed. Harry gripped his shoulder.

'My parents knew things about me. They had watched me. I'm sure Fred will be watching you as well. Maybe he's here with us now.'

George remembered his feeling of Fred's presence today. Maybe it wasn't stupid after all. Everything Harry had said was something he had always known deep down, or hoped to be true, but it was nice to now believe it more strongly. He wished he could just see Fred now, but it was a small comfort at least to know that they last time they spoke maybe wouldn't have to be the very last time.

He looked at Harry, who patted him on the back.

'Thank-you,' he whispered.

Harry smiled. 'You're welcome,' he said. 'I hope it helps.'

George nodded. 'You think he's really here with us now?'

Harry hesitated.'You tell me, George.'

George looked around, half expecting a pearly mist to appear in the doorway. He snorted. He closed his eyes and felt. Maybe he felt what he wanted to feel, but he didn't care. It was possible that he was there, and that's all George needed to know.

He took a deep breath and said 'Bugger off Fred, you pervert.'

Harry burst out laughing. George grinned at him, laughing himself. They laughed until their stomachs hurt, not noticing the door opening.

'Ahem,' said Ginny. 'We've been looking all over for you two.'

Harry rolled his eyes, knowing that Ginny knew exactly where they were and what they were doing, having been so informed by Harry. It would have perhaps made George uncomfortable though, knowing that details of their conversation weren't just between them. Harry felt gratitude for her tact, and winked at her, trying to make her blush like he loved.

It didn't work. Hand on her hip, she remained silent, smiling at them both.

'Going to come down and have some more food then?'

Harry felt another rush of gratitude towards her for not asking about what they were doing. One day, after they had grieved for a while, he'd tell her that she was the last thing he thought of before he died, and that he loved her. He smiled.

George had got up, and looked at Harry expectantly. 'Coming?'

'Of course,' said Harry, eyes on Ginny, her eyes on him.

George made a noise deep in his throat. 'Well come on, then. And don't eye my baby sister like that, it's disgusting.'

And with that, he passed through the doorway and went down the stairs to load up a plate with sausage rolls, smiling as he went.

Perhaps he could see some merit in waiting a while until he saw Fred again. Fred would be the first to agree that he should do so. He would miss Fred every day for the rest of his life but...for the first time since Fred's death, he could actually picture _having_ a rest of his life.

Moving down the stairs, George nodded to himself. _That's enough,_ he thought. _That's enough for now._

_FIN_

A/N: Hope you all enjoyed the story. Review! I think I'll devote myself to oneshots from now on so I don't take 3 years to sort out a story like with this. To conclude, Fred + George 4eva!

-NZgirlie


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